


The Things Left Behind

by TLM8



Category: Harper Connelly Series - Charlaine Harris, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Mystery, Not Canon Compliant, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-09-23 05:51:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17074577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TLM8/pseuds/TLM8
Summary: Bellatrix Lestrange's torture the night of the Trio's capture has left Hermione Granger with more than just scars. Turning the side effect of her torment into something useful is the only way Hermione knows to keep it from driving her insane.  With her best friend, Harry Potter, by her side, she has made it her life's work to bring peace to the loved ones of murder victims.  But a new and sinister danger is pulling her back to the home she left 3 years ago.  Even more troubling, the feelings she'd carefully packed away for her best friend are getting harder and harder to ignore.





	1. Chapter 1

"What do you think?"

Harry and I stood in the center of the loo, peering into the gleaming white commode. The room was so tiny, Harry seemed to fill every square inch of it, forcing me to squeeze into the negative space. It also reeked of Clorox and glass cleaner; so much that I was starting to feel nauseous.

"You okay?" Harry was staring at me, his face creased with concern, but I waved him away.

"Fine." For once, it was just strong smells that were turning my stomach and not something more sinister. Strong smells I could handle.

"So." The room was too small for much gesturing, he contented himself with just looking around instead. "What do you think?"

I sighed, shaking my head. "I think this poor woman just spent 5000 pounds so we could tell her what she already knows." I still wasn't quite sure how I felt about assignments like this, the straightforward confirmation jobs where all I could do was reiterate what was already in the coroner's report. It was one thing when there was truly foul play involved and both the victim and the victim's families were desperate for justice and peace. In those circumstances, I earned my fee. Ones like this, though, not so much. I felt a bit like a mechanic charging an outrageous sum of money to tell the hapless car owner that there wasn't anything wrong at all with their car that wouldn't start, it was just out of gas.

"You're sure?"

I nodded. It wasn't just the complete and utter lack of negative energy that almost always signaled a genuine crime scene. Since my unfortunate run-in with Bellatrix Lestrange (may she rot in Hell), I was especially sensitive to things like pain, terror, and anguish. There was none of that in this minuscule loo. In fact, the strongest emotional imprints left behind by the victim were discomfort and embarrassment. "He suffered from chronic constipation and stroked out on the toilet."

"Right." Harry's hand rested gently on the small of my back as he guided me out of the bathroom. "Might as well get it over with then." He dipped his head closer and muttered, "It's not like you called her, Hermione. She's the one who begged you to come, not the other way around."

It was an oft repeated phrase when he and I came upon jobs like this. As bad as I felt about it, we still had expenses to pay--room and travel and food just to get here and back, not to mention our overhead bills. As generous and compassionate as I wanted to be, the plain truth was this was how I earned my living. I couldn't afford to give my work away for free, especially since I never knew how long I'd have to go in between jobs. It could be days; it could be months.

Mrs. Wallace, a short, round redheaded woman in her late 30s with rubbery looking lips and large grey eyes. She eyed us hungrily, and I felt my stomach drop even further. Harry wasn't exaggerating when he said she'd begged me to come. She'd done everything short of showing up on my front porch and prostrating herself at my feet. She was convinced her husband had been murdered. By who or why, she refused to say. I made a valiant effort to decline the job because even before reading the crime scene, I was pretty sure I knew what happened when she explained the circumstances. She was having none of it, though, and I wasn't so flush with cash that I could afford to turn away jobs on a whim.

"Well?" Mrs. Wallace asked.

I never knew what to do with my hands when we got to this part. Offer them as a gesture of comfort? Clench them at my sides? Stuff them in my pockets? People who are grieving the death of a loved one are both out of control and unpredictable. What would have been right before is all wrong now and no one knows it until the mistake has already been made.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Wallace," I began, "I know you were hoping for some closure with this. But the M.E. was right. It was a stroke."

She was shaking her head before the words were completely out of my mouth. "That can't be," she said, "I know it must have been something else. Drugs, maybe. Or someone out to get him."

My eyes flicked over to the 8 x 10 photo of Mr. and Mrs. Wallace sitting on her fireplace mantle. He looked like a taller, thinner, balder version of Mr. Bean. I couldn't imagine anyone "out to get" such a benign looking man. I thought it more likely no one ever even noticed him. "I don't think so."

"You don't think so?" Mrs. Wallace repeated, "I'm paying you all this money, and you're not even sure?"

Here we go. I felt Harry shift slightly closer to me, ready to put himself between Mrs. Wallace and me should things turn ugly. "I am sure, ma'am. It was a stroke that killed him."

Mrs. Wallace began to pace back and forth in front of us, her arms folded tight across her chest. Her home wasn't much bigger than her loo. She'd only taken a few steps before she had to turn around and head the other direction. I've learned over the years that grieving takes many forms. Sadness, of course. Helplessness. Fear. Anger wasn't all that uncommon either. Many times the bereaved are well and truly pissed off. But Mrs. Wallace's expression was one I hadn't seen before. I could have sworn she looked disappointed.

She turned suddenly and leveled a baleful look at us. "So what I am I supposed to do? Tell my friends and family my husband died with his briefs around his ankles, taking a dump? I won't do it. I won't be made a laughingstock."

Any sympathy I might have been feeling for the woman vanished. I highly doubted any of her friends or family were laughing at her. Her husband—the man she'd taken vows with, shared her life with—had died and all she cared about was how embarrassing the circumstances were for her?

"It could have been drugs. It's not like you've even seen his body. All you did was stare at the toilet," she said.

I'd also read the autopsy report, including the toxicology screen, which cleared him of any drugs, but I doubted pointing that out to her would make any difference.

Mrs. Wallace's eyes narrowed. "You know what I think? I think you're a fraud. A liar. A cheat. Swindling decent people in their time of sorrow."

It was time to go.

"We're very sorry for your loss, ma'am," Harry said, reaching for my arm.

"Wait a second!" she said, stepping into our path to the door and thrusting her face close to mine. "You aren't going anywhere until we get a couple of things straight. First of all, as far as I'm concerned my husband's stroke was drug-induced, do you hear me? He died of an overdose. That's what you're going to say."

"We aren't going to say anything to anyone," I told her, "It's your business."

"Damn right it is." She was glaring at me like I was the one responsible for his death. "My husband is already dead. You aren't going to make my life even worse by spreading lies about him."

Who did she think I was going to tell? "Fine." I tried to step around her, but she blocked me again.

"Not so fast there, missy. I want my money back. I'm not paying you 5000 pounds to make up lies. I’m not paying you 5 quid."

There was nothing she could do about the fee. It was one of the many advantages of being a witch, contracts bound by magic. If someone promised to pay me, I got paid whether they liked it or not. "I'm sorry, but that's not possible. You signed a contract, remember?"

"That contract was contingent on your uncovering the truth of his death. I'd say you failed in that respect, so the contract is null and void. Even if it wasn't, do you think there's a judge anywhere who would rule in favor of a lying parasite like you? I want my money back."

With every word, Harry's grip on my arm had become progressively tighter, and I knew his control was on the verge of snapping.

"You're not getting it back." I kept my voice even, "You hired me to provide a service. I provided it. I know you're frustrated that it wasn't the answer you were looking for, but I fulfilled my end of the deal."

In a flash, she was up in my face. "Now you listen to me, you greedy bitch--!"

That was it. Harry's wand was in his hand before I could form the word, "No!" and Mrs. Wallace was out cold at our feet, her red hair and flowered house dressed fanned out around her like double halos.

"Dammit, Harry, she's a muggle!" Which meant we were going to have to spend the next 45 minutes cloaking any evidence of magic and modifying her memory. Not to mention I'd always found it rather unsporting to pull wands on people who had no defense against them.

I understood why he did it, though. I was even a little grateful. One of our earliest jobs was with a man incoherent with grief over the death of his son. It had been a particularly gruesome murder, and as the reading went on, he'd become more agitated, more hysterical, and more combative until his rage finally exploded, and he punched me in the face. I saw it coming, so I was able to duck the worst of it, but he still managed to break my nose. Harry lost his mind. It was the closest he’d come to killing someone since the battle for Hogwarts. For the first time in months, I actually found myself wishing Ron was with us because he was big enough and strong enough to pin down an enraged Harry Potter. Instead, I had to literally throw myself on top of the bastard who'd just assaulted _me_ to stop Harry from beating him to death.

"She'll be fine," he said. We set about the necessary work of covering our tracks and tucking Mrs. Wallace into bed, then left. Harry was looking me over as we made our way to the car. "What do you think? Back to the hotel then or do you need to get something to eat?"

Most readings left me exhausted and barely able to stand, the intensity of the emotions involved was so overwhelming.

"The hotel, I think. I could use a nap." I glanced over at him, my mouth twisting upwards in a knowing smirk. "But maybe you could ring that girl from the pub last night. I’m sure she'd love to go out with you for something to eat."

Harry smiled a little. "Yeah, maybe."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: The next couple of chapters take place mostly in winter of 1997. I tried to make that as clear as possible in the telling, but it might still be a little confusing.

Harry and I had been doing had been doing these death readings for almost 3 years now.   _Death readier_ .  After all this time, I still couldn't decide if that title sounded silly or macabre.  Maybe a little of both. It was the closest I could come to describing my particular talent, though.  I wasn't psychic, I couldn't predict the future, and though I could sense the dead, I couldn't control or even communicate with them.  Empath, I suppose, wouldn't have been wholly inaccurate, though Empath for the Dead wasn't an especially credible job title. I’d already had a hard enough getting people to take me seriously as a death reader.  I suppose I could have billed myself as a profiler, but that felt a little too misleading to me. Profilers create a psychological portrait of a suspect based on behavior patterns and an analysis of details of the crime scene.  What I did was basically go to a crime scene and experience whatever it was the victim felt in those crucial final moments before their death. Most of the time, the victim's mind is a morass of terror, desperation, and panic, but sometimes death comes as such a surprise, they're thinking remarkably mundane things like what they want to have for dinner or if that new movie at the cinema is worth the price of a ticket.  (Or how embarrassing it would be if they were to die sitting on toilet). And every now again, even when a victim knows death is imminent, I am filled from head to toe with the most pure and overwhelming sense of love I've ever known. Those are the moments I wish I could stay inside forever.  The man who's loved his wife his entire life and can think of nothing but how blessed he was to call her his. Or the young woman who's final thoughts are of the family who've shaped her into the person she’s become and filled her life with love and happiness.  I've no doubt it was this sort of love that filled every inch of Lily Potter the night she died to save her son.   The same son who was now wasting his life and his incredible potential by following me around the world like some self-appointed personal bodyguard, when he should be at the Ministry where he belongs, training to become an Auror.  We had many, many, _many_ arguments over it those first few months on the road, some of them coming perilously close to wand fire.  

When I made the decision to turn this half-blessing/half-curse into a something resembling a career path, I had every intention of slipping off into the dark of night by myself and setting up shop in the first town that was willing to pay me for my services.  I had it all planned out--bags packed, cash in hand, portkey at the ready. I even had a vague idea of where I'd go first.  I should have simply left the same night I finally made my mind up, but the scholar in me just _couldn't_ leave school a second time without taking my NEWTs first, not when I was so close to officially being done.  So I went to McGonagall and asked her if she would arrange for me to take them before school let out for the Christmas hols.  To my astonishment, she agreed. I think, somehow, she must have known I didn't intend to return.

 

I hadn't spoken to Ron or Harry in months by this time.  Not since the day I'd walked out of the Burrow 2.0, after returning from Australia for Harry's 18th birthday, to find Ron tangled up in the flower beds of his Mum's garden with some stacked blond wearing a dental floss bikini, who giggled more than Lavender Brown.

 

As much as Ron's betrayal hurt, it didn't exactly come as some big surprise.  It's not as though he hadn't let me down before. Harry's betrayal, though—that was totally unexpected, though maybe it shouldn't have been given our history. We were a funny little trio, Ron, Harry, and I.  Ron accused me on more than one occasion of choosing Harry over him, and if I were being perfectly honest with myself and him, I have to admit that he was right.  I did put Harry first. I loved them both, but my loyalty to Harry always won out over everything else. My family, my friends, my goals, even my principles. But there was something else Ron never noticed about the three of us—something _I_ didn't even notice until that sunny afternoon at the Burrow, when Harry was standing in front of me, pulling out all the stops to keep me from heading into the garden where I would see with my own eyes the proof of my supposed boyfriend's dishonesty.  Ron never noticed that not once in all of the years of our friendship had Harry ever chosen me back. Not _one single time_ in 7 years had Harry ever taken my side against his best mate. Harry didn’t stand against me, per se, but he never stood solidly with me either.  Because standing with me might cost him Ron and he wasn't willing to risk that.  Not even if it meant losing me. In that moment, a flood of memories went rippling through my mind, fanning themselves out one after the other like a stack of photographs for my perusal.  The circumstances varied, but the end result was always the same. Time and again when a choice had to be made, I chose Harry. Harry chose Ron. Ron chose himself. No one chose me.  The realization slammed into me with the force of a freight train.  I might have laughed at the absurdity of it all, had it not been so profoundly pathetic.  And I was supposed to be the smart one? Yeah. Okay. Whatever. I told the both of them to go fuck themselves and I left.  

 

Cutting my ex-best friends off turned out to be a good thing in the long run because I'd barely made it back to my parents' house before the more sinister effects of Bellatrix Lestrange's parting gift to me began to assert themselves.  Terrified over what was happening to me, I isolated myself as much as possible once we got back to school, which wasn't all that hard, with Ron sulking about like I was the who'd cheated on him and not the other way around and Harry constantly being swarmed by his adoring public.  A week into school, people were already used to seeing Ron, Harry, and Ginny together instead of Ron, Harry, and me. A few weeks more, and I was so consumed with my own problems I barely noticed my former friends anymore. By the time December rolled around, I was pretty sure they no longer noticed me either.  

 

So I was nothing short of amazed the night I returned to the common room after finishing (and acing) my final NEWT test and found Harry sitting at the base of the girls' staircase, wearing a heavy winter coat and boots, with a rucksack at his feet.   

 

"Hermione!" He jumped up as soon I walked into the room.

 

"Harry."  My voice was loaded with so much scorn, I was sure he'd tuck his tail between his legs and scurry right off to complain to Ron.  He didn't. If anything, he planted his feet more firmly, blocking my path. "Could you move please?" I said, "I'm tired, and I want to go to bed."

 

"I'm coming with you."

 

My eyebrows shot upwards.  "You want to come to bed with me, Harry?  Not even dinner first?" And even though I was still so angry at him--even though there was a part of me that wanted more than anything to kick him really hard in the shins--I couldn't keep the smile from spreading across my face when he blushed so hard he could have passed for a Weasley.  

 

My smile made him smile, which then made me laugh because Harry always looked so endearing when he was smiling and blushing like that (damn him).  He started laughing too, because that's how he was, and the two of us stood there smiling and laughing together until I remembered he and Ron were nothing but a pair of lying bastards who could bugger the hell off for all I cared.  I cut myself off mid chuckle. "Do you mind?" I gestured to the staircase behind him.

 

Harry's smile vanished a second after mine did.  "Not until we talk first."  


"I don't have anything to say to you."

 

"That's fine.  Better, actually, because you can't argue with me if you won't talk to me, which will save us both some time.  I just wanted to let you know that I'm coming with you."

 

"What, upstairs?  That'll be a nifty trick since no boy has managed to get up that staircase in the last 150 years." I seriously doubted that, but it would take someone with better marks in charms than Harry to manage it.  

 

"I know you're planning to leave, Hermione—"

 

"Of course I am.  Christmas hol starts tomorrow—"

 

"—I also know you're not coming back."

 

My mouth snapped shut.  How? How could he have known that?  Who could have told him? Not Lavender or Parvati.  They weren't interested enough in me to care about my plans. McGonagall, then? Why would she do that, when it wasn't any of Harry's business?  

 

He was watching my face with uncharacteristic shrewdness.  "Go on," he said, "Did you think I didn’t notice the NEWTs board arrival yesterday? Or how slavishly you've been studying the last few days?"

 

No, as a matter of fact, I did not. Since I was doing my level best to forget all about him, I assumed he was doing the same to me.

 

"I know what you're doing,” he said, “You're tying up loose ends because you're not planning to return.  Which means I won't be returning either."

 

_Yeah, right_ .  Even if he had an invite to come along with me—which he _didn't_ —who did he think he was kidding?  Harry wasn't going to leave Ginny or Ron, especially not at Christmas.  I didn't know what sort of game he was playing, but whatever it was, I wasn't in the mood to indulge him.  "Sure, Harry. Whatever you say. I'm going up to my room now, so either get out of my way or I'll give you a hand."

 

Not only did he step aside, he made a gallant, sweeping gesture up the staircase.  "Good night. I'll be down here waiting for you in the morning."

 

Yeah, that wasn't happening.  Harry was deluding himself if he believed there was any chance Ron and Ginny would let him stay behind.  And even if they did, there was no way Mrs. Weasley would let him skip out on a brand new Christmas jumper and her traditional homemade eggnog.  

 

So I wasn't even a little surprised when I came downstairs at noon, and Harry was nowhere to be found.  Neither was anyone else. Almost everyone went back home for Christmas that year. The memory of the war was still too fresh.  

 

With all of my belongings crammed into my rucksack, I slipped out of the castle and walked down the path leading to Hogsmeade before activating the portkey that would take me to the tiny town of Ayr.  As soon as I arrived, I headed for the one and only inn available, a quaint-looking bed and breakfast housed in a cute little clapboard cottage.  A snowstorm was blowing in just as I reached the front porch.  

 

"Good afternoon."  The warmth of the little cottage was a welcome reprieve from the bitter cold outside.  I gave the young woman behind the counter a friendly smile as I pulled off my mittens. "I'd like a room, please."

 

The door behind me opened on a gust of wind before shutting again just as quickly.  "Actually, make that two," said a familiar voice.

 

I spun around to find Harry standing right behind me, shaking snowflakes out of his hair.  I was so stunned, all I could do was stand there, gaping at him. 

 

"And how long will you be staying with us?"  The clerk (Murin, her name tag said) was looking at Harry with a great deal more interest than she'd shown me.  

 

"I'm not sure.  Hermione?"

 

I stepped closer to him.  I didn't want to make a scene because I needed the room, but I could not believe his nerve.  "What the hell are you doing here?" I growled.

 

He returned my seething look with a mild one of his own, which only made me angrier.  "I told you last night that I was coming with you.  Now how long are we planning to stay?" 

 

"I'm staying for a week," I said to Murin, "He's just leaving."

 

"No, I'm not."  He leaned closer and whispered, "If we're going to have it out, we should at least do it in the privacy of your room."  Then he stepped around me and pulled out his wallet. "How much then?"

 

I glared at the back of his head as Murin fussed about and fluttered her eyelashes at him.  Oh, we'd have it out all right. As in I'd have _him_ out…passed out cold, that is, and stuffed head first into the floo the second we got to the room.  But Harry anticipated me. As soon as we crossed the threshold, he disarmed me. So much for stunning him and packing him off.  

 

I'm still not sure how it was that I didn't bring the inn down around our ears with the shouting match that ensued once the door was firmly shut behind us.  _Match_ , I suppose, is the wrong word since I'm the only one who did any screaming. I was twice as ruthless with Harry as I'd ever been with Ron. I called him every foul name I could think of, told him I hated him, that I regretted ever meeting him, and accused him of ruining my life.  I even shoved my forearm in his face and told him it was all his fault I'd been tortured and it was just good luck that my being his friend hadn't gotten me killed. We were both crying by the time I'd screamed myself hoarse, Harry slumped against the door with his head in his hands and me curled up in a ball on the bed.  

But he didn't leave. He _wouldn't_ leave, no matter how much I demanded, ordered, or begged.  By the time I realized I was fighting a lost cause, it'd had already cost me a day and a half, and I didn't have enough money to waste any more time.

 

And loathe though I was to admit it, I was more grateful than I could say to have him there with me when I went to that first crime scene.  I wasn't accustomed to my dark ability yet. I didn't know how to manage it or filter it properly, and I wasn't prepared for the onslaught of emotions that slammed into me when I was standing in the same spot a young girl had been killed. It was only a matter of minutes before I was on the ground, a sobbing mess, vomiting my breakfast up all over the dirt-packed floor.  I learned two important lessons that day. (1) Never eat right before a reading, and (2) having a friend with you is a good thing. Harry picked me up and took me back to the inn, then spent the rest of the night plying me with broth and holding my hair back when I heaved it all back up.  

 

I thought he might try to argue with me when I got out of bed the next morning, determined to go back, but he didn't.  He just nodded, went back to his own room for a shower and a change of clothes, then we returned to that horrible little room together.  It was another two days before I felt I had enough information to approach her family. During all this time, Harry never asked me what I was doing.  He just stood there in the corner, his arms crossed over his chest, watching me as I walked around the tiny room, running my hands along the walls or sitting in different places and listening. I know it took every last ounce of his self-control to keep his face neutral when I knocked on the door of Mr. and Mrs. Edmund Prattel the day before Christmas and said, "My name is Hermione Granger.  I need to talk to you about your daughter, Emily."

 

Harry was unusually quiet when we left the Prattel home more than 3 hours later.  There had been a lot of tears and questions from the Prattels—questions I wasn't sure were helpful to know the answers to—but more than anything else, what I felt after meeting with them was an overwhelming sense of relief.  For them, for myself, and for Emily too.  Her voice wasn't the only one calling to me from beyond the grave, but it had been one of the most compelling. By helping her and her family find some measure of peace, I finally had an idea of how I might be able to help myself too. Maybe I wouldn't lose myself to Bellatrix's curse after all. The burden was still there until I could figure out how to undo it (if I could figure out how to undo it), but it no longer felt quite so heavy. It couldn’t punish me forever if I had a way to keep it from driving me insane.  

I cried all the way back to the inn, but for the first time in weeks, they weren't tears of despair.  

 

To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

I kept waiting for Harry to ask all the obvious questions, but the entire way back to the inn, he didn't breathe a word.  I was both surprised and impressed by his self control. In his place, I wouldn't have been able to keep my mouth shut.   

 

I went straight to my room for a hot bath as soon as we got back, and by the time I was done, Harry had ordered up some dinner.  He was sitting on my bed, reading a letter that he folded up and slipped into his back pocket when I came into the room.  

 

"How is Ginny?" I asked.

 

"She's fine." He eyed my pajamas, pale blue flannels with fluffy white sheep jumping over tiny picket fences, with a small smile.  He gestured to the white ceramic bowl sitting on my night stand, "I got you lamb stew.  Figured you wouldn't be up to going back out tonight."

 

"Thanks."  I sat down on the bed beside him.  Housekeeping must have come in and lit the fire in our absence because the room was toasty warm and the rich smell of yew wafted towards us from flames.  I picked up the bowl and took a small bite.  I'd been nauseous to my core most of the day, but that one bite confirmed I was finally past the worst of it.  Relieved, I ate a few more bites as I mulled over my present dilemma--how best to go about ditching my best friend.  "So listen," I said when we were both about halfway through our dinner, "This trip to the Prattels?  That's what I came here to do. I'm checking out first thing tomorrow morning.  You should go to the Burrow and spend what's left of your holiday with the Weasleys."

 

Harry didn't respond at first.  "Where will you be going?"

 

"My parents' house."  

 

It was a bald-faced lie.  Before we left Emily's parents, Mrs. Prattel had pulled me aside and told me of another family desperate for information about their daughter’s murder as well.  When I told her I didn't have the money to travel to Prague, she immediately pulled out her bank book and wrote me a cheque for £3000 and stuffed it into my coat pocket.  " _If you can help Capria's family find some peace, I hope you will," she said, "It’s the not knowing that’s so unbearable_."  As soon as I could reconfigure the portkey, I was going to Prague.  

 

"That was the girl, wasn't it?" Harry asked, pulling me from my thoughts, "The one whose body they found in the Forbidden Forest."

 

The first week in December, the Aurors were summoned to Hogwarts on an anonymous tip, revealing the exact location of remains purported to be those of a young witch who's family had reported her missing a year ago.  The Aurors tried to be discreet, but not even the stealthiest, most skilled agents in the field were any match for the Hogwarts' grapevine. There wasn't a single student, teacher or house elf who didn't know all about the case by the time Aurors were finished collecting the body and running what scanning spells they could on the surrounding area.  The only thing no one at the school seemed to know for sure was the young woman's name and how she got there.

 

Well, almost no one.  

 

I knew.  

 

Now Harry did too.

 

"How did you know?" he asked.

 

I shook my head.  "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."  The thing was, though, I knew he would believe me.  Any explanation I offered up, Harry would accept wholly and without question.  But no matter how cagey or careful I was about it, telling him any part of the truth would also mean reopening old wounds, reliving old horrors, and admitting to him a few things I wasn't ready to admit even to myself.  Just the thought of such a conversation made me tired.

 

Maybe he knew that because he didn't bother with the usual assurances of trustworthiness, opting to cut straight to the chase instead.  "Do the dead talk to you?" he asked.

"No."

 

"Are you having dreams?"

 

"Not about the dead, no."

 

"Visions, then?"

 

"I'm not having visions either," I said, "Look, it's not easy to explain, and it would take too much time anyway."

 

The firelight glinted off of his lenses, turning them opaque.  I couldn’t see his eyes, but I could practically feel the wariness parading right out of them as he considered me. "It's not like I'm going anywhere, Hermione."

 

Oh, yes, he was.  He was going home.  He just didn't know it yet.

 

"Not tonight," I said, "I'm exhausted.  I just want to go to sleep.  Can we leave this until morning?"

 

Only this time, I wasn't waiting until morning.  As soon as he left the room, I was leaving. I expected him to argue the point with me a little longer (it’s what I would have done), but after gazing at me in silence for another second, Harry stood up, grabbed his half-eaten bowl of stew, and left without another word.  

 

I was dressed, packed up, and gone in 10 minutes.

 

Harry was dressed, packed up, and standing behind me in 11.

 

We had another epic blowout over it, which accomplished absolutely nothing but more tears, a Christmas holiday that was even more miserable than the one before it, and more lost time to fighting with each other.  

 

I tried to sneak off without him 3 more times before Harry's patience finally ran out.  He'd stayed mostly silent through my prior outbursts, replying with only one or two-word answers as I spewed my vitriol all over the both of us.  This time he went on the offensive, calling me selfish, stubborn, and immature.  

 

"Why are you making this so hard?" he shouted, "You’re wasting time and money every time you try to ditch me!  When are you going to get it through your thick head that I'm not going anywhere?"

 

"When are you going to get it through _your_ thick head that I don't want you here?" I shouted back, "There's a reason I didn't invite you along in the first place, you know!"

 

"I want to help you."

 

" _You_ want to help _me_?  What a joke!  Tell me, Chosen One, when have I ever asked you for help?" I wasn't just yelling, I was shrieking.  Right up in his face, howling like a pissed-off Veela. "Can you name one time in all the years I've known you that I've ever asked you for help with anything?  A homework assignment, a personal problem, an extra hand carrying my books? Why do you think that is? It's because deep down I have always known that I can't count on you!  You made that abundantly clear this summer!"

 

He opened his mouth to protest, but I rushed over him.  "Don't!  I didn't want to hear your excuses then, I don't want to hear them now!  You and I both know the only reason you're here is because of your relentless hero complex combined with some twisted need to tidy things up with Ron and me so we can all skip off into the sunset one, big happy Weasley family.  But it isn't going to happen, Potter! I am done with the both of you! So why don't you, Ron, and everyone else who thinks they get a vote in my life just fuck the hell off and leave me alone! I don't need any of you!"

 

The silence that followed my pronouncement seemed twice as loud as my shouting.  Harry stared at me like he couldn't decide if he wanted to hug me or wring my neck.  I was shaking from a combination of righteous indignation and exhaustion. The work, though helpful in some ways, was bloody awful in others.  I needed a bath and some decent rest, minus my unwanted companion, if I was going to keep it from swallowing me whole.

 

The silence was turning oppressive when Harry finally spoke again, his voice so low it was almost a growl.  "You're the strongest person I know, Hermione. No doubt about that. But you're not invincible.  As much you might hate it, you do need help."

 

I did hate it, but I also knew he was right.  If I'd learned anything these last few weeks, it was that until I was better able to manage my abilities, I needed an assistant.  And I had every intention of advertising for one the moment I managed to run Harry back off to Hogwarts, if he'd just get the hell out of my way.  

 

"You need help," he said again, "So I am going to help you."

 

One more minute of this, and I was going to start pulling handfuls of my own hair out by the roots.  "Have you not heard a single word I've said?"

 

"Yeah, I have.  Every single word. Multiple times now.  You hate me, you don't trust me, you're not my friend anymore, you want me to fuck the hell off and leave you alone.  Believe me, Hermione, you've made yourself crystal clear." He took a step closer to me. I forced myself not to step back.  "But here's the thing. No matter how much you fight me or how hard you push me away, I'm not going anywhere. I'm just not."

 

"I don't want you here!"

 

"I don't care.  I'm not leaving."

 

"Why not?!" I could feel tears gathering in the corners of my eyes again.  I really couldn't handle another episode of weeping. The last one had left me feeling achy and dehydrated for 2 days.  "Why can’t you just go away?"

 

"Because you're right," he said, "You haven't ever asked me for help before.  Not even to borrow a quill or a jacket, let alone for something important like finding your parents.  But that's going to change. You're not just my best friend, Hermione. I'm your best friend too. If you need help, _I’m_ the one who's going to help you."

 

"God, Harry, why do you even care?" My relationship with my best friend, although close, had always had a bit of a caretaker/dependent quality to it.  For as long as I'd known him, Harry had been forced to carry the burden of his own legacy. I wasn't willing to add to it with problems that were urgent to me, but hardly as big as the ones he was up against. Until now, I'd always assumed that was one of the things he liked best about me--that I handled my stuff on my own and didn't pester him for help.  And even that was assuming he noticed the caretaker/dependent dynamic of our relationship in the first place, which, if I'm being perfectly honest, I rather doubted.

 

"Hermione, do you remember that last trip to Hogsmeade?"

 

Of course I did.  It was the same day the Aurors came to Hogwarts to collect Emily's body.  I deliberately put off sending the owl to them because I didn't want to be stuck in class when they arrived.  I needed to see her—with my own eyes—to prove to myself that I wasn't going crazy. That the screams of terror and desperation I'd been hearing for months now were real.  So while everyone else headed off to the shops in Hogsmeade, I took the path that led past Hagrid’s cabin into the thick of the forest. I arrived just as the Aurors located her corpse.  I watched, horrified and relieved, as they pulled her from the frozen earth. The sound of her screams, louder than they'd ever been before, filled the inside of my head. So did the sound of that terrible, gleeful laughter.   I stood there, shaking from head to toe, the revulsion mixed with exhilaration rooting me to the ground. I stayed hidden in the line of trees until the last of the Aurors finished taking their notes and disapparated away.  

 

"What has that got to do with anything?" I asked.

 

"Do you remember going to the Hog's Head?" he said.

 

When I finally left the forest, I'd walked straight to the Hog's Head.  Aberforth's new barman looked about as pleased to see me then as Aberforth himself did 3 years ago when Harry, Ron, and I used this place to organize Dumbledore's Army, but after glowering at me for a minute, he poured me the glass of firewhiskey neat that I’d ordered and pushed it towards me.  “Yeah.  What about it?"

 

He shoved his hands into his pockets, his expression both sad and frustrated.  "Do you remember what you did?"

 

_What I did?  If memory served, I took my glass of firewhiskey and slunk off to a table near the back where I could finish my drink in private.  The walk here had burned off some of my nervous energy, so I wasn't shaking quite as bad anymore. The relative quiet, the shrouded-in-shadows atmosphere, and the firewhiskey was proving helpful too.  By the time I finished that first glass, my hands were no longer trembling. By the time I finished the second, the screaming in my head was finally gone. Halfway through my third, and the affects of Emily's death were loosening their iron grip on my heart.  I took a deep shuddering breath and set my glass down._

 

_That poor girl._

 

_I was on the verge of putting my head down on the table and just giving in to the tears that had been clogging my throat for hours now when the door to the Hog's Head flew open and half the student body came pouring in, including my ex and my former best friend.  Unbeknownst to me, management at Hogs Head had decided to install '50s style jukebox, hoping to drum up a little more business. The students went to the Three Broomsticks for the food, but they were obviously coming here for the music. Tables were filling up fast and before I could duck out, Seamus, Dean, and Neville were standing in front of me._

 

_"Hey, Hermione.  Do you mind if we sit here?" Seamus was already skiving out of his coat and laying it across the back of the chair. "First round’s on me.  You want anything?"_

 

_I gestured vaguely to my half-full glass, and he left to get butterbeers for the rest of them.  I glanced over at the barman and was darkly pleased to see he didn't look any happier about the influx of customers than I was.  I needed time and space to dissect my thoughts. For so long now, I'd been afraid to find out I was wrong, which would mean I was probably losing my mind and needed hospitalization, but also equally afraid to find out I was right and all the horror inherent to that. I'd been hearing Emily Prattel's bones calling out to me since September. I'd been hearing even darker things for a lot longer than that.  Now that she'd been found—now that I knew it wasn't just some bizarre PTSD reaction to the prolonged trauma of the war—I was faced with an entirely new set of questions. I still didn't fully understand what it was that had happened to me yet, but I knew instinctively that whatever it was, things were irrevocably changed for me now.  I would never be the same._

 

_There had been many times in my life that I'd felt alone.  As the bushy-haired, buck-toothed, bossy know-it-at-all Muggleborn daughter of dentists, I'd spent quite a bit of my time alone.  But this was the first time in a long time that I'd felt so profoundly lonely._

 

"As best I recall," I said, shaking off the memory, "I had a couple of drinks, then I left when the place got too crowded."

 

"You also asked Neville to dance with you."

 

_He was right.  I was sitting there at that table, listening to everyone around me talk and laugh and smile and flirt with each other, a little more subdued than before the war, but happily enough—and the longer I sat there, surrounded by it, but essentially apart from it, the more my loneliness deepened.  There was no one I could talk to about what had happened to me, no one who would understand, no one I trusted enough to take that kind of chance anymore. At best, people would think I was a fraud, at worst a monster. And maybe I was a monster. Because as awful as Emily's death had been, there was a part of me that relished it too.  It sickened me, but I couldn't deny it. The more I turned it over in my mind, the emptier I felt until I was too hollowed out, even for tears. It was too much. I was one more drop of despair away from shattering from the inside out._

 

_Seamus had just returned with the butterbeers.  He was passing them around with one hand and waving for Harry, Ron, and Ginny, who were still surveying the room from the doorway, with the other to join us._

 

_"Neville, do you want to dance?"  The words were out of my mouth before I knew what I was saying, but the last thing in the world I wanted to do was sit at that table with Harry and the Red Menace.  I couldn’t handle them today. Not now. Not like this. In fact, I was so desperate for distance that if Neville said no to the dance, I had my counter-offer to take him into the alley out back and make out with him against the wall already poised on the tip of my tongue._

 

_But Neville didn't disappoint me.  Caught off guard, he choked on his mouthful of butterbeer, but after hastily wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he nodded.  "Yeah, sure."_

 

_The jukebox had been stocked with Muggle and magical artists alike, and half the floor was already full with students moving to the music.  The song couldn't have been more perfect if I'd handpicked it. A sad, but moderate-paced ballad about change and pain and not knowing where or how you fit into the world anymore._

 

_If Neville was surprised by my invitation to dance, he must have been shocked when I grabbed a handful of his t-shirt and yanked him close into my personal space.  He recovered quickly, though, sliding his hands around my hips. It took all of my self control not to collapse against him. As the song played, he urged me closer and closer until finally I was flush against him as we swayed back and forth the music.  His hands were firm on either side of me, an embrace that wasn't quite a hug._

 

_In some ways, it just made sense that I would have two boys for best friends.  I was about as different from most of the girls I knew as I could get. I don't giggle, I'm not romantic or dreamy, I couldn't care less about things like hair and makeup and gossip, and give me good, sound logic any day over sticky, chaotic emotions.  But just because I wasn't the emotional sort, it didn’t mean I never craved comfort or tenderness. I'm not sure Ron or Harry ever got that about me. To be honest, I not sure anyone did. At least not until I felt Neville's fingertips underneath my chin, urging my head up.  There was a knowing gleam in his eyes—an unspoken camaraderie—that nearly undid me._

 

_That was the thing about Neville Longbottom.  People sometimes mistook his quiet manner for obliviousness.  They couldn't have been more wrong. He was fiercely devoted to the people he called his friends.  Loyal and observant, always ready to step in whenever and however he was needed. He was just waiting for someone to ask.  In that moment, I was so profoundly grateful to him I could have cried. The warmth of his touch, the solidness of his body pressed tight against mine, was exactly what I needed to keep the despair at bay.  It wasn't hurting anything that Neville was actually a pretty great dancer. Throw in the fact that all that manual labor he'd put in over the summer as a landscaper’s assistant had resulted in a nicely muscled chest and arms? I’ll be honest--that wasn't hurting anything either._

 

_I kept him on that dance floor for at least 9 or 10 songs.  By the end of it, he had both arms wrapped type around my waist and my face was buried against his shoulder.  When I finally looked up at him, it was to find him smiling at me, his eyes kind._

 

_"All right then, Hermione?" he asked._

 

_"Not really," I mumbled, "but much more of this, and people will say we’re in love."_

 

_We looked at each other for a moment, then burst into laughter, as we both tightened our arms around each other in a genuine hug._

 

_"Do you want another drink?" he asked._

 

_I glanced over at the table.  Both Seamus and Dean were gone, but Ron, Harry, and Ginny were still there.  Not even the promise of more alcohol was incentive enough to make me want to sit with the three of them.  "No. I'm gonna head back now."_

 

_"Hold on a second. I'll go with you."_

 

_After he got our jackets, we left.  We didn't talk much on the way back, but he did hug me again back in common room before he went up to his room and I went to mine.  "I don't know what's happened, Hermione, but you're stronger than whatever it is you're going through. You know that, right?" he murmured in my ear._

 

_Just now, I wasn't sure at all, but it was nice to hear he thought so.  "I hope you're right."_

 

_"I am."  He gave me a shy peck on the cheek and left._

 

_And even though it really didn't fix one single thing about the mess my life was turning into, it helped somehow, knowing that someone believed in me.  I went to bed that night feeling a tiny bit less hopeless and woke up with just enough resolve to keep fighting. I could figure this out. Bellatrix may have changed my life, but I'd be damned if I was going to let that psychotic bitch ruin it._

 

"Why didn't you ask me, Hermione?"  Harry's voice, low and strained, pulled me out of the memory.  

 

"Ask you what?"

 

"Ask me to dance with you."

 

An involuntary bark of laughter burst from my lips.  "Are you kidding? You hate dancing."

 

"You still should have asked me," he said, scowling.  

 

"I wasn't even speaking to you at the time.  What makes you think I'd have danced with you?" I didn't bother to mask my derision and for some reason, I think it was that—my dismissing him so flippantly—that finally made him snap.  

 

The next thing I knew, he was in my face shouting, " _Because it should have been me_!"

 

I was so surprised, my mouth snapped shut with an audible click.  

 

"I saw you, Hermione,” he said, “Sitting at that table by yourself.  The look on your face…I've never seen you look so defeated before. Not even during the war.  I didn't know what happened, but I knew it must have been unspeakable to make you look like that.  So I decided it was time we took care of this. I was going to march over there and _make_ you talk to me again because what was the point of surviving the war in the first place if I still lost all the people I love?  But just as I was getting there, you asked Neville to dance." He all but spat Neville's name when he said it. " _Neville._ _Bloody._ _Longbottom_."

 

"What's wrong with Neville?" I demanded.

 

"Nothing. Not one damn thing.  He's a good roommate, a loyal friend, and an all-around great bloke.  There aren't many I consider a better person than him. But here's the problem.  He's _not_ your best friend.”  He jabbed his finger hard against the center of his chest.  “ _I_ am."  

 

I stared at him, incredulous.  "Is that what this is about? You’re jealous?"

 

"I'm not jealous, I'm pissed off!" he snarled, moving closer, "Because I saw you let him in, in a way you've never let me in before.  Do you have any idea how that made me feel?  You never let your guard down with anyone if you can help it, but you did with him. It should have been me!  After everything you've done for me, it's my turn to look out for you, and _it should have been me_!"  The last sentence was bellowed so loudly, the chandelier above us shook in protest. 

 

For a moment, I couldn't speak.  I'm the first one to admit I'm not a master at hiding my emotions, but I thought I'd done a pretty good job of affecting indifference where Ron and Harry were concerned.  But he'd seen all that at that the pub? My terror, my grief, my loneliness? He'd seen it and it…mattered to him? " _Well, of course, it did_ ," a snide voice inside my head murmured, " _It’s what makes heroes so tragic and noble, isn't it?  Martyring themselves for the greater good? Always jumping in to rescue helpless damsels?"_

 

"Cut it out!" he commanded, "This isn't about saving you.  That's not why I'm here."

 

My eyes widened.  "How did you—"

 

"Because I know you!  This isn’t some damn hero's quest, I’m here because I love you! That's not going to change just because you're mad at me! And you’re not going to cheat me out of my chance to be there for you the way you've always been there for me!”  He picked up his rucksack and slung it over his shoulder, "And another thing. If you’re plotting another runner as soon as my back is turned, don’t bother. I haven’t spent the last 7 years hanging out with the brightest witch of her age without learning a few things.  If you leave, I will find you, Hermione. Count on it.”

 

He slammed the door on the way out, leaving me staring after him.  I wasn't sure what I found more astonishing. The fact that Harry—clueless, oblivious, give-me-second-to-draw-you-a-map Harry Potter--wasn't half as clueless or oblivious as I thought. Or that the reason he'd come after me wasn't because he was trying to save me, it was because he loved me.  He'd actually said it out loud, where we both could hear it. Harry could barely admit when he was sleepy, let alone an emotion as complicated as love. For anyone else, it may not have been such a huge admission, but from him…well, it wasn't the sort of thing he threw out there often.  Or ever.

 

And I admit, it affected me.  I think because, in spite of everything we'd been through together, I was never really sure what he felt for me.  I knew Harry cared about me. I knew he valued my friendship. But I honestly didn't know if he loved me or not, and I was too afraid of being hurt to ask.  Especially when the incident over the summer seemed like answer enough to me. But I was wrong. Harry loved me. He'd just said so. Like a friend, of course, but still.  He loved me.

 

I was still standing in the middle of the room, reeling from the shock of it when he came back to get me for dinner.  The fury was gone from his face, leaving him so looking earnest and hopeful my heart would have to be made of stone to reject him.  

 

"Are you ready to get dinner?  There's an Italian place not too far from here."

 

Except for the first time in months, I could finally hear what he wasn't saying too.  What he'd been trying to tell me for months now. _I'm sorry I hurt you, Hermione.  Please forgive me. I love you._

 

"Yeah.  Let me get my coat."   _I'm sorry too, Harry. Thank you for coming after me.  I love you, too._

 

That was the last time I tried to ditch him.  


	4. Chapter 4

I was sitting in bed, reading a letter, when Harry tapped on my door around midnight before poking his head in.  After returning to the inn, he rang the pretty blond from the pub (Kelli with an "i") and invited her to dinner.  "Hey," he said, "I just wanted to let you know I was back."

 

"Hey yourself,” I said, “I didn't think I'd see you until tomorrow morning.  Did you not like Kelli with an i?"

 

"I did."  He shrugged out of his coat and sat down on the foot of my bed. "We went to that Indian place across town, then hung out at hers for a bit."

 

"Why didn't you stay the night?" I hoped it wasn't because of me.  For a long time, Harry cut his dates short because of the one time he'd come back to our motel because he'd forgot his wallet and found me in the middle of a breakdown.   He was afraid to leave me alone after that, and it took me staying out all night a few times myself before he finally relented.

 

He didn't look overly concerned about that tonight, though, thank goodness.  "Kelli has 3 ferrets."

 

"So?"

 

"So ferrets stink, Hermione.  Their owners can't tell because they're used to it, but the smell is bloody awful."  

 

I suspected the ferrets probably smelled just fine, and Harry was just disinclined to dislike them based on an unfortunate association with Mr. Twitchy Little Ferret himself.  "Oh, but Harry, don't you think having an exotic pet like a ferret is kind of sexy?"

 

"Funnily enough, I do not find the odor of sweaty fur mixed with urine all that sexy, no."

 

"What a primadonna."

 

We both laughed, as I leaned forward to run my hand over his hair.  He was wearing dark jeans and a well-fitting slate gray button up shirt.  "You look nice, by the way. I don't remember if I told you that before you left."  Harry had always been cute, but he'd grown into himself over the last couple of years.  I wasn't the only one to who'd noticed, if the loads of girls constantly eyeing him up was anything to go by.  And unlike at Hogwarts, the attention didn't seem to make him uncomfortable.  Especially not when we were in the Muggle world, where he wasn't the Chosen One anymore, he was just a dark-haired bloke with a disarming smile and pretty green eyes.  

 

"Thanks."  He gestured to the letter I still held in my hand, "Who's that from?"

 

"I was going to talk to you about it in the morning.  How many other requests have come in?"

 

Harry had taken over fielding the requests for readings and booking our jobs.  When we were first starting out, we were forced to take whatever work we could get, which meant we sometimes wasted our time with less than credible jobs.  Over the last 3 years, though, Harry had developed a knack for weeding out the legitimate offers from the ones that either wanted to discredit me or target me.  "Two more. One in Texas and the other in Louisiana."

 

I knew the ones he’d meant because I’d already looked over their requests too.  Both readings for Muggles; both widows hoping for answers to their questions like Mrs. Wallace.  I was surprised to discover that between magical and Muggle folk, it was Muggles who were more receptive to my capabilities.  For wizard kind, my particular talent smacked just a little too much of dark magic for their comfort. And that was without knowing the full story.  

 

"We haven’t committed to them yet, but I was planning to send responses tomorrow," he said, "Why? Did you get another?"

 

I handed him the letter and watched in silence as his eyes flicked back and forth across the page.  When he was done, he looked up at me over the rims of his glasses.  “You're not seriously thinking of taking another job with the Ministry?"  His tone was far from pleased, not that I blamed him. About a year after we’d left Hogwarts, we got a request from the Ministry to perform a reading on the death of a rather prominent judge with in the Wizengamot because it was obvious to the Aurors who first responded that the crime scene had been tampered with.  Because the gentleman--the Honorable Robert Platt Jenkins—was so highly-esteemed, the Ministry was determined to leave no stone unturned in the investigation of his untimely demise.

 

It took less than 10 minutes (up to that point, a record for me) to deduce how Judge Platt died, not because of any particular sensitivity on my part, but because the imprint he'd left behind of fear of discovery was so strong, it practically punched me in the face the moment I entered the room.  Judge Platt, it turned out, had some extraordinary appetites, and his death was the result of an elaborate bit of role play gone wrong. Hoping to preserve his privacy, I had asked everyone who wasn’t family, including Harry, to step outside while I relayed my findings. And I really did try to deliver the news as delicately as possible, but there are only so many delicate ways to use the words “dog collar” and “handcuffs”.  Once they cottoned on to what I was trying to articulate, they were so outraged I was arrested on the spot. All my assurances of absolute discretion and no judgement whatsoever on his lifestyle fell on deaf ears.

 

It was 3 days before Harry was able to get me released, and even then it was only because he threatened to take out a front page ad in the Daily Prophet and air all their dirty laundry if they didn't let me go.  The charges--attempting to defame and slander a well-loved and well-respected member of the community--were dropped right away because they were ridiculous, but Rita Skeeter still had a field day attacking me in print. It was nearly six months before we were asked to do any work in the magical community again, and even then, we performed the readings as quickly as possible and left again as soon as the job was finished.   

 

"Normally, I'd tell them to bugger off," I said, "Except its Shacklebolt himself who's asking this time.  He gave us his word we won't be mistreated again."

 

"Do you want to take the job?" 

 

"I do," I said, "We'd be paid consultants on the case. They’re even willing to include accommodations and per diem in our fees.  It will be our highest paid job yet."

 

He rubbed the back of his neck as he considered the letter in his hand.  "I don't know, Hermione," he said after a minute, "They were such bastards to us last time, I'm not all that inclined to help them out.  Besides, we're doing all right. It's not like we really need the money—"

 

"I've been thinking about buying a house."  The words burst from my lips before I could stop them.  I _had_ been thinking about buying a house, for some time now actually, but I hadn't meant to tell him like this.  

 

Harry's gaze snapped up to mine.  He stared at me with something like betrayal in his eyes.  Like I'd been plotting behind his back or something. "Y-you have?"

 

"All the traveling was okay at first.  Necessary, even. But we're more established now, and it's been long enough that I can admit constantly being on the road is starting to wear me down," I said, "I'd like to have something that’s my own, you know? A place I can go back to with my own bed and my own books and my own pictures.  I could even get Crookshanks back from my parents.  If he'll still have me, that is."

 

I smiled, but Harry wasn't looking at me.  His eyes were on his hands, plucking at the thin orange and brown blanket covering my motel bed.  It smelled strongly of laundry soap and cheap polyester. "You know you're always welcome at Grimmauld Place with me."  

 

"Grimmauld Place is your house, not mine."  It was the obvious place for a home base for us, but I couldn't bring myself to move in there permanently with him, in spite of his repeated offers.  He knew perfectly well why too.  Harry had the right to invite whomever he pleased (i.e. the Weasleys) to his own home, but I knew he wouldn't if it made me uncomfortable. I refused to take over his house like that.  My issues with Ron were mine, not his. 

 

I drew my knees up to my chest and folded my arms over them.  The strap of my tank top slipped off my shoulder, and with a small smile, Harry reached over and dragged it back up in place. His hand was warm on my bare shoulder.  "Is that the only reason?" he asked, "Because you want to buy a house?"

 

No, the house wasn't the only reason.  I was surprised he'd picked up on that, though.  "I think I'm ready, Harry," I said, "I think it's time."

 

"Time for what?" he asked.  

 

"Time for us to go home."

 

**************************************************************************************************************

 

"Harry, are you ready to go?"  I knocked on the door twice before pushing it open.  

 

Harry was on his mobile. He smiled at me, but held up one finger.  "Yes, I enjoyed meeting you too…I'm not sure. It depends on where our work takes us next…that would be nice…then I'll ring you if I'm in town again…right…good-bye, Kelli."

 

"A not-even-24-hours-later-followup-call, huh?  The lady must have been very impressed," I teased.

 

Harry laughed and waved me off.  "She just wanted to say good bye."

 

"And let you know she's available for another go if you're into it."

 

Harry and I were pretty matter of fact about our romantic lives.  After three years of being together every day (not including the year we’d spent together during the war), we were pretty matter of fact about everything, though I admit watching him chat up girls who weren't Ginny Weasley took some getting used to at first.  

 

"Are you going to let Ginny know you'll be home for awhile?"

 

Harry nodded, but his face remained blank.  

 

His ex-girlfriend was still something of a sore point between between us, even more so than Ron.  It wasn't so much that I wanted them to get back together, more that I felt responsible for breaking them up in the first place.  The first year Harry and I were gone, he and Ginny had carried on much like they had when we were fighting the war. They sent letters back and forth and floo called as often as they could, which was only every once in a while since Ginny was finishing her last year at Hogwarts.  After graduation, I knew she wanted him to come home, at least for a visit, but Harry wasn't willing to leave me, no matter how many times I assured him that I would be fine. By the time I took that ill-fated Ministry job, Harry hadn't seen Ginny in over a year.

 

The day we arrived, he floo'd her and made plans to take her to dinner, which I felt certain was step 1 on the path of them two of them getting back together.  I still remember standing in the doorway of the bathroom, one shoulder pressed against the frame, watching Harry knot his water blue tie.

 

_"What do you think?" he asked._

 

_"I think you look gorgeous." He did too.  In charcoal grey slacks and a crisp white shirt, he looked as though he just stepped off the pages of Wizards Quarterly.  "I won't wait up."_

 

_He turned to smile at me, and I was delighted to see the beginnings of a blush on his face.  "You don't have to wait up for me or anything, but I won't be all that late tonight."_

 

_"You'd better be very late, if you know what's good for you, Harry Potter.  God knows you've kept the poor girl waiting long enough."_

 

_His eyes turned sober as he gazed at me.  I knew what was bothering him. The same thing that had been bothering him since I accepted this assignment.  Even though my last attempted runner was 8 months ago, now that we were back in England, Harry was worried I would duck out on him for good.  I could see the apprehension in his face every time he looked at me._

 

_"Harry." I walked up to him and slipped my arms over his shoulders.  He responded right away by pulling me into a hug. "Don't worry, okay? I'm not going anywhere without you.  I promise."_

 

_Sure enough, I felt some of the tension leave his body at my words.  He gave me a tight squeeze before letting me go. "So what about you?  Any plans tonight? You gonna go see your parents?"_

 

_"Tomorrow.  Tonight I'm going over to Neville and Hannah's for dinner.  We might go to the cinema or something afterwards.  Anyway, don't worry about me.  Just have a good night out with your girlfriend."_

_For his sake, I hope it was a really good night out, because it was the only one he got.  Originally, we’d planned to stay a couple of weeks in England, but that wasn’t an option after the Ministry job went sideways.  As soon as I was released, I went straight to Grimmauld Place and started packing. After seeing me safely inside, Harry said he’d be back in a bit and left.  He was gone most of the evening, and when he finally returned, he looked unusually grim.  I smiled at him, fully expecting him to break the news that he had reunited with his girlfriend and our fledgling business arrangement had come to its inevitable end. I even had my "It’s fine, Harry. I want you to be happy" speech all ready to go._

 

_So I wasn’t at all prepared when he frowned at me, his gaze flicking between me and paper cup sitting on the end table next to me.  “You’ve already ordered a portkey? Why didn’t you floo me? How much time do I have?”_

 

_“What?”_

 

_Harry didn’t respond.  He was already taking the stairs two at a time and disappearing down the hall.  By the time I caught up to him, he was already in his room,  shrinking down his belongings.  "You might have told me before I left,” he tossed at me over his shoulder, "I wouldn’t have stayed so long at the Weasleys if I’d known! I thought we were leaving in the morning!"_

 

_“We?” I repeated stupidly._

 

_“Yes, we!  Of course, we.  What’d you think?” With one sweep of his arm, he shrunk all of his clothes down to fit in the palm of his hand, then tossed them into his open rucksack._

 

_“I thought you’d be staying here, of course,” I said, “With Ginny.”_

 

_“No.”_

 

_“No?” I’m sure I sounded like an idiot, but this wasn’t going at all the way I’d thought it would. “But aren’t the two of you--”_

 

_“We broke up," he cut in._

 

_"You what?" I exclaimed, “Oh, Harry, no! You can’t do that.”_

 

_“It’s already done.” He began gathering his books and the file folders spread out on his desk._

 

_"But you're crazy about Ginny!” I said, coming into the room, “Why would give her up now, when she's done with school and you’re back home again?  You two can finally be together."_

 

_He slipped into the loo, emerging a moment later with his toothpaste and toothbrush, his shaving kit, and 2 bottles of shampoo and body wash. "I'm too busy for a relationship right now." After shoving those into his rucksack as well, he shouldered it and made his way back to the living room.  I trailed after him, feeling sick with guilt_

 

_"In other words, you can't date her because you're too busy roaming the world with me, right?"  I was the first one to admit there was no great love lost between Ginny and me at this point, but I knew how much she meant to him.  I was appalled at the thought of Harry giving up his relationship with her because of me. "Harry, please just think about this for a second. Think about you're doing.  What you're giving up!  Ginny loves you, but she's not going to wait for you forever.  You must know that.  I don't want to be the reason you two aren't together."_

 

_"You're not," he said, "She's been recruited by the Harpies and leaves to start training at the end of the month.  Even if I were to stay here, we'd still never see each other because she'd be the one who's gone all the time.  It's just bad timing."_

 

_"Well, then, why can't you two just keep on the way you have been?"_

 

_Harry gave me a humorless smile.  "She said the same thing."_

 

_"And you said no?"_

 

_"It wasn't easy," he said, his jaw clenching briefly, "But I think we both deserve more of a relationship than letters and a floo call every now and then."  When I started to say something else, Harry cut me off with a stern look.  "Hermione, I don't want to fight with you about this, okay?  Can we leave it for now? Please?"_

 

_I promptly shut my mouth.  Just because I felt responsible didn't make it my business.  "Okay. We'll leave it." I took his hand in mine and pulled him into an embrace.  When his arms came around me, I dug my chin into the crook of his shoulder.  "I'm still sorry, though," I said softly._

 

_"I know you are.” He tilted his head, resting it lightly against mine for a moment.  “Thanks."_

 

_We stayed like that until the portkey activated. Still holding his hand, I reached for it and the two of us disappeared._

 

I looked over at him, wondering if Harry was remembering that night too.  He and Ginny still saw each other anytime we were in England, but to my knowledge, neither one of them broached the possibility of resuming an exclusive relationship.  But this job was going to be different, I knew it the second I opened Shacklebolt's letter.  He wouldn't have reached out to us personally unless he truly believed he'd exhausted all other options.  That meant this case was bigger than anything we'd ever worked on before.  It also meant we likely wouldn't be leaving any time soon.  We could be in England for weeks, months even. Plenty of time for Harry to reconsider his options.  The thought made me both hopeful and sad.

But more than the job itself or Harry and Ginny's relationship or how things might change for Harry's and my partnership was the incessant longing whispering through my veins.  I'd learned to trust my instincts over the last 3 years, even the vaguest impressions that made absolutely no sense to anyone on the outside looking in. That's how I knew, deep in my bones, that something was calling me home. 


End file.
